Caught in the Act

A Freddie O'Neal Mystery

Catherine Dain

First published in "For Crime Out Loud"

Lane Josten was a minor character in The Luck of the Draw, and I wanted to give him more screen time—or page time, in this case. Since the Freddie O'Neal series was cancelled before I had the chance, the best I could do was offer him a starring role in a short story.

 

I could argue that the decline of America as a great power, a symbol of liberty and justice for all, occurred sometime in the years between 1953 and 1980—between High Noon and High Noon II. In the original, Gary Cooper is the lawman who puts duty before any petty personal considerations. Love has to wait until he shoots Hank Miller dead in order to save the town.

In the so-called sequel, the marshal is greedy and venal, no better—maybe even worse—than the ex-con he is hounding, while Lee Majors, in the former Cooper role, is a righteous man who operates without a badge. The law can no longer be trusted. The good citizen is forced to step in, with nobody discussing the line between the good citizen and the vigilante.

Distrust for law enforcement breeds disorder and decline in the community. And no matter how necessary the orig­inal vigilance councils of the West might have been, when we start to prefer them to due process, the barbarians have crashed the gates.

Of course, I could also argue that the causes of disorder in the community are more complex than the plotlines of a couple of old movies, and since I've never made it past the first half hour of High Noon II, the ending might undercut my original point.

For the record, I don't believe that my PI license gives me the right to take the law into my own hands. I consider myself an adjunct peace officer, bound by the same laws, if not always by quite the same rules, regulations, and proce­dures. And I've never personally had a bad experience with the police.

Nevertheless, I know people who have. So I was willing to listen when Lane Josten, anchor of the "Channel 12 News at Eleven," brought me a problem that he really should have taken to someone with a badge instead. Black­mail is, after all, a crime.

Lane and I had a friend in common, journalist Sandra Herrick, who had once been Lane's co-anchor. And I had met him a couple of times when another woman who used to be his co-anchor had been involved with a murder sus­pect. I had even borrowed his shirt. I hadn't gotten to know him for two reasons. There was a lot else going on in my life at the time, and I'm uncomfortable around men who are not only prettier than I am, they're prettier than any woman all the way up to Cindy Crawford.

His black hair had a glistening wave that didn't quite fall onto his forehead. His face seemed blessed with a perma­nent ski-bum tan, wide dark eyes that crinkled with smile lines, and a generous mouth that usually gleamed with teeth so aesthetically perfect that the dentist should have signed them. Or maybe had, for all I know. I didn't get that close.

This day, the gleaming teeth were hidden by lips drawn tight in a face so rigid that the tan had cracked into Seurat-sized dots. As he sat across the desk from me, in one of the black-and-white cowhide chairs placed there for clients, he wasn't smiling. The tension and lack of animation added several years to the appearance of perpetual youth he pre­sented on camera. I suspected his birth certificate would confirm that this older Lane Josten was the real one. Even so, he had the most perfect face I had ever seen in the flesh.

"Someone has some pictures of me." His eyes were fo­cused beyond my shoulder at the fish swimming on my computer screen. "The person who has them wants money for them. I want you to make the exchange."

"Why me?"

"I don't want to see him."

That wasn't enough. I waited.

"Because I trust you. You're Sandra's friend." He glanced over at me to see if that meant anything. I nodded and waited some more. "I don't think you'd hurt me."

"What kind of pictures and why are you paying for them?" Whether I was going to hurt him depended on what was going on.

"Pictures of the two of us. Together. And I'm paying for them because he threatened to send copies to Horton Robb if I don't." He glanced at me again, hoping he wouldn't have to get any more explicit, then back to the fish.

Horton Robb was the station owner and general man­ager. He wasn't known for tolerance. A local joke went that Horton wouldn't have a stereo in his home because it had a left speaker.

"Sandra hasn't talked about you," I said. "In case you were wondering, she didn't betray your confidence."

"I didn't think she would—or at least not without some good reason." Lane ran his hand through his wave, the only clue that he wasn't just fascinated by the fish.

"Okay. This is extortion. My professional advice is to go to the police, set up a sting, and press charges."

Lane looked down at his hands, away from the cartoon aquarium, and shook his head.

"Okay," I said again. "You don't want to go to the po­lice. What would happen if you simply called the black­mailer's bluff? How bad could it be?"

"The end of my career. Even if Reno could accept a gay news anchor—and I haven't seen any encouraging signs of that—Horton couldn't. He'd demote me to field reporter immediately, even though it's in violation of my contract, and dare me to sue."

"You could sue and win."

"Maybe. And the suit would take years to drag through the courts, and he'd appeal, which would take more years. I wouldn't have a job. And the only person more undesirable than a gay news anchor is a gay news anchor in the middle of a breach of contract lawsuit."

I thought again of Sandra Herrick, who had moved from television to newspapers rather than sue Horton Robb over breaching her contract when she became pregnant. Lane was probably right. Still, I couldn't help wishing somebody would sue Horton.

"You know this, but I'll say it anyway. You'll have no guarantee that you'll receive the only copies of the photos. Even if this person gives me the negatives, he could have contact negatives stashed somewhere. Once you pay a blackmailer, you're setting yourself up for a lifetime of dread. Every time you check the mail, every time you an­swer the phone, you could get hit again."

"That's why I want you to go. I want you to make it clear—this is the only time. If he tries again, I'll tell him to go to hell. I'll leave Reno and start over somewhere else be­fore I'll pay another dime."

I had to puzzle over that a minute. "You think he may not believe you—but he'll believe me?"

Lane swiveled around to face me, and his mouth flick­ered with a ghost of its usual smile. "You're tougher than I am."

I couldn't argue with that. "Set up a meeting. I'll only charge you for the couple of hours it takes to do the job. And I won't threaten him—I'll simply report what you've told me."

He nodded. "That'll do."

It took him a minute to gather the strength to pick up the dark blue jacket draped over his knees and get out of the chair. The late October day was too warm for a jacket, but Lane evidently hadn't watched his own station's weather re­port the night before. Indian summer, the guy had said.

"How many people know?" I asked.

Lane paused at the door.

"That's hard to say. My friends know—Sandra knows, of course—and I have an occasional drink at Tom Thumb's. Not often."

Tom Thumb's was a bar on South Virginia, a couple of miles past the city limit.

"You thought you could do that and stay in the closet?" I asked.

"I hoped," he answered. He hadn't looked back at me. "I hoped we were all friends."

"I guess this guy isn't the friend you thought he was."

"At least not the friend he used to be."

Lane flashed a half smile over his shoulder and slipped out the door.

I hit a key on my computer to bring back Tetris.

 

Lane called again two days later to tell me he had set up a meeting. He stopped by my office that afternoon to give me a fat envelope. An address was written on it.

"His name is Jimmy Dahl. He's expecting you at four o'clock."

"How will I know I have all the photos?"

"You won't. I have to trust Jimmy on that." His skin and smile were almost back to normal, but a soft red glow trav­eled from his neck to his cheekbones. "I'd just as soon you didn't look at them."

"I'll ask him to seal them."

"Thanks." He hesitated, as if there might be something more, then closed it off with a smile.

"I'll call you when I get back," I said.

"Right."

When Lane had gone, I placed the envelope in a zippered leather folder that could hold the photos coming back and checked the address on a map. It was in a rundown area just off Glendale Avenue, between 395 and the Truckee River, ten minutes away at most.

I gave myself twenty.

I parked the Jeep in front of a crumbling stucco six-plex wedged sideways between two clapboard houses of uncer­tain vintage. Some kind of deciduous tree held out bare limbs as if it didn't know how to react to the sun. I had grabbed a denim jacket as I left the house, out of October habit, but I left it on the seat.

Jimmy Dahl's apartment was number three.

As I started down the walk, a man wearing a tan cowboy hat brushed past. His head was lowered against an imagi­nary breeze, and I didn't see his face.

When I knocked on the door marked three, and it swung open at my touch, I had a sinking feeling that I should have been more observant.

The apartment was only a combination living room and sleeping area, with a counter-topped half wall marking where the tiny kitchen area began. The unmade sofa-bed took up most of the room.

And a naked male body on blood-soaked sheets took up most of the bed.

I should have picked up the phone and called the police. I know that. Even if I wanted to protect my client—which I did—I would have had time to look, carefully, for the in­criminating photos while I waited for an official response. We could have worked something out.

But adrenaline kicked in, and I raced back to the street to see if I could catch a glimpse of the man in the tan hat.

He was waiting for me, leaning against the leafless tree. Beneath the cowboy hat he was wearing a blue work shirt and boot-cut Wranglers. His face was round, bland, and full of good cheer.

"Pete Lowry," he said, holding out his right hand. A tan cowhide briefcase was in the left. "You're Freddie O'Neal, right?"

"How do you know who I am?"

When he realized I wasn't going to shake, he retrieved his hand and lightly touched his hat brim in what might have been a salute.

"Saw you on television—that nasty bidness at the univer­sity."

He actually said "bidness." I don't think even real cow­boys say "bidness" when they mean business. And Lowry wasn't a cowboy, he was a private investigator. Even though I hadn't met him, I'd heard the name. He'd retired under unspecified pressure after not quite twenty years on the Las Vegas police force and moved to Reno. A Las Vegas PI had e-mailed me to be careful if I ran into him.

"What are you doing here?"

Lowry pointed to the leather folder under my arm. "I suspect we're here for similar reasons. The unfortunate young man in number three had some photographs that a client of mine was willing to pay good money for."

"So what have you got in your briefcase?" I realized when I said it that I was pushing, but I didn't think he'd pull out a gun and shoot me on the sidewalk. Not that the man on the bed had been shot. Even though I hadn't looked closely, I was sure there was too much blood for that. And none of it was on Lowry.

"Well, little lady, I'm afraid I can't let you see that." I must have frowned, because he added, "Figure of speech, no offense. I took the time to find the pictures I came for, and I don't think my client would approve if I showed them to you."

"If you have the pictures—and you didn't kill Dahl—why did you wait for me?"

"If you'd called the police, what's the first thing you would have said?"

"I saw a man leaving the scene."

He nodded, smiling again. "There you go. Thought I'd save you the trouble of looking through mug shots."

"And save yourself the trouble of defending why you left a crime scene without reporting it. Which is what we have to do right now."

"After you."

I turned back toward the building, but stopped short as a beefy man wearing tight slacks and a loose jacket walked up. This one I knew. His face was red, and he had to be sweating into his shoulder holster.

"Hello, Crane," I said. "You know Lowry?"

"O'Neal." He nodded at me, then glanced at Lowry and added, "I haven't had the pleasure."

Crane didn't look like it was a pleasure. Neither did Lowry, who gripped his briefcase a little tighter even as he smiled.

"Pete Lowry, Barry Crane," I said. "Lowry and I both have clients facing an extortion threat from one Jimmy Dahl. You too?"

"So it seems," Crane said, "so it seems."

For a moment I couldn't figure why they were both doing the puffed chest routine instead of shaking hands like col­leagues. Even if Crane had heard of Lowry and didn't like the information, it would have been like him to offer a damp palm. Then I remembered that my client and the dead man were both gay. I'd make book that their clients were as well. Neither of these guys would refuse anybody's money, but they each evidently felt some tension over this one.

"There's a dead body in number three," I said.

"What?" Crane jerked around, the loser in the staredown.

"I'm going back to call the police."

Maybe they didn't want to touch each other, but they were both willing to touch me. A moist, heavy hand fell on my right shoulder, a dry one on my left.

"Let's not be too hasty," Lowry said. "After all, we have our clients to consider."

"And if that dead body is Jimmy Dahl, our clients are suspects," Crane added. "All three of our clients. Which means giving information about them to the police."

"Information they paid us—and were willing to concede to extortion demands from Jimmy Dahl—to keep secret," Lowry finished.

"Yeah, but then it wasn't murder," I said, brushing both hands away.

"Think for a moment, lit—O'Neal," Lowry said, tipping his hand to his hat again. "Our clients will be ruined. And at least two of them unnecessarily. Maybe all three are in­nocent. Who knows how many poor wretches were victim­ized by that Jimmy Dahl?"

"I want to see the corpse," Crane said. "After that, we talk. I don't think we want to rush our clients into the hands of the police."

I wasn't happy about this. Nevertheless, I led the way back to number three.

Jimmy Dahl's body was still on the bed, slowly cooling to ivory. A jagged wound on his chest looked as if someone had stuck a knife right below the breastbone and twisted. From the condition of the sheets and walls, the blood had spurted and pumped before he died. His face had the glazed, gaping expression of a small rabbit caught on the highway. He had seen the weapon and known it was the end.

There wasn't room for all three of us in the doorway. I walked around to the other side of the bed, where all I could see was an ear and the back of his head. He'd had dark hair, already thinning.

"My guy didn't do this," Crane said. "Hasn't the guts."

"I'd say my client is off the hook for the same reason," Lowry said, apparently happy to go along.

They had each taken a position at maximum distance from each other and the bed. In the tiny space available, they could still have held hands.

"Bullshit. Everybody's a suspect until we start estab­lishing alibis."

"Then you agree?" Lowry asked. "No police?"

"I don't agree. But I'll go this far—we take the photos we came for, and we ask whoever shows from the police if we can report to our clients tonight and go in for a formal statement in the morning. I think we can get away with that much, and it gives us each a little time to check out our own clients. Maybe we can protect a couple of innocent people that way."

"Way to go," Lowry said.

"Where'd you find the photos?" I asked.

"What?" Crane turned sharply, and for a minute I thought he was going to grab Lowry's neck. He pulled a handkerchief from his jacket and wiped his forehead.

"In the dresser," Lowry said. "Second drawer."

A dresser with a Scotch tape dispenser, a stapler, some pens, and a few scattered window envelopes on top—the kind that hold bills—was at the foot of the bed. The angled mirror reflected Dahl from the torn chest down. I had to turn away.

Lowry had either been lucky with his first try or he had tossed the place carefully. Not that there were many places to look. For all the personal effects showing, Dahl could have been packed and out of there in ten minutes. Aside from the shirt, jeans, and jockey shorts lying on a chair, and a coffee mug on the small table, everything but the bed it­self was as void of character as a motel room. A second coffee mug was in the drainer next to the sink.

"Did you leave prints?" I asked.

"Not a chance." As I started for the dresser, Lowry added, "I didn't leave any photos, either."

Crane hitched his shoulders. "Let's have 'em."

"Easy, now," Lowry said. He placed the briefcase on the carpet, held out his hands in a gesture of surrender, then knelt down and flipped the catch to reveal a stack of tan envelopes. "Four—count 'em—four. One marked Lowry, one marked O'Neal, one marked Crane, and one marked Dennis."

"Why do you have them? Who the hell is Dennis?" Crane asked.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me you had mine?"

"I have them because I wanted to get them out of the apartment. I wouldn't have let you get away without your envelopes. I was just playing it out." Lowry's geniality seemed to be wearing thin as he handed a fat nine-by-twelve to me and another to Crane. "As for Dennis—if he doesn't show up, I say let's open his."

"I'm Dennis. Open what?"

A slender young man with streaked blond hair curling around his chin stood in the doorway. When Crane turned to look at him, he cleared a line of sight to the body on the bed.

"Oh, my God." The young man blanched so quickly that I thought we might have a second corpse on our hands. He caught himself against the wall. "What happened?"

"Somebody decided murder was cheaper than black­mail," I said. "Did you know the deceased or were you hired?"

"Know Jimmy? Of course I knew Jimmy. Who are you? Where are the police?" He glanced from face to face, shock turning to terror.

"I'm calling them right now," I said.

Before anyone could protest, I picked up the phone on the dresser—using fingertips and hoping I wouldn't smudge anything—and punched out the direct dial to Detectives.

I was lucky enough to catch Matthews. He didn't think it was so lucky. But he said he'd be right over.

"What happened?" Dennis asked again. While I was on the phone, he had moved over to the bed. He had taken the envelope Lowry held out, automatically, without looking. It dangled at his side.

"We've each been hired to make an exchange—money for photographs. This is what we found," I said. "And you?"

"I thought I could talk him out of doing this. Oh, Jimmy." Dennis began to slump, and I grabbed his arm to keep him from the bloody sheets.

Crane and Lowry both backed toward the door. They stopped when they reached it at the same time.

"Waiting outside is a good idea," I said. "We'll all wait outside."

Crane let Lowry go first.

"I'd rather wait here," Dennis said.

His eyes were filling, and I wished I could let him mourn in peace.

"Sorry. We're messing up a crime scene."

"A crime scene. But that man had the envelopes. Doesn't a crime scene mean we have to give the envelopes to the police?"

"It means we're working in a gray area here." My nose should have grown longer on that one. I turned him toward the door. "If the photos are evidence—if they provide a mo­tive for murder—we'll have to turn them over. Do you have a way to carry your envelope?"

"I don't understand."

"Well, if you wave it in Detective Matthews' face, he'll have to ask you what's in it." I pulled the corner of the en­velope containing what I hoped were photos and negatives of Lane Josten out of the leather folder.

Dennis seemed puzzled for a moment. Then he handed his envelope to me.

"How do I get it back?"

"We'll leave separately, and I'll meet you."

"Tom Thumb's," he said, "I need a drink."

Not the place I would have chosen, but I didn't want to argue.

I hadn't realized how cool the apartment was until we were back on the sidewalk. The sun was heavy on my cotton shirt, and I envied Lowry his hat.

The four of us waited quietly for Matthews. No enve­lopes in sight.

A black-and-white arrived first. Two unmarked cars rolled up right behind.

If Matthews had been unhappy when I called, that was nothing to his reaction when he was faced with three private investigators who didn't want to divulge their clients' names plus one private citizen who admitted to being a friend of the deceased but was otherwise unwilling to volunteer any­thing. He finally agreed to let Crane, Lowry, and me come in for formal statements the next morning, making dire threats about what would happen to our licenses if we failed to show. He was still talking to Dennis, who gave his last name as Stiers and his occupation as accountant, when we left.

I swung by my office to drop off Lane's envelope. I didn't want to carry it with me to the bar. I thought about calling him, but it was after five-thirty, and telling him Dahl had been murdered ten minutes before he went on camera didn't seem the thing to do. If I caught him at seven, he'd have four hours to compose himself before the late news. The risk was that the police beat reporter would tell him first. I decided to chance it.

I got back in the Jeep, took a couple of quick corners, and headed south on Virginia Street.

 

Tom Thumb's was a squat, brown rectangle in the middle of a parking lot. The neon sign above the door was small and pale. This wasn't a place anyone would drop into, not without knowing what it was.

I had thought Dennis Stiers might beat me there, but none of the startled male faces that caught my entrance be­longed to that particular young man. I had my own moment of surprise, though. Barry Crane was seated at the bar. He wiped his forehead when he saw me heading toward him.

"This isn't what you're thinking, O'Neal," he said, as I settled onto the next stool.

"Okay. I'm not thinking. But I'm listening."

"Buy you a drink?"

"Beer's fine. Whatever's on tap."

The bartender had been busy with a blender concoction for a couple at the far end of the counter. Crane caught his eye, held up his own glass, and two fingers.

Crane didn't say anything until the glasses were in front of us.

"Freddie O'Neal, I want you to meet Barry Crane, Jr. My son."

"Pleased to meet you," the bartender said. "Although I'm sorry about the circumstances."

"Same here."

"I haven't told the other customers about Jimmy. I'd rather they found out from someone else. I wasn't fond of him, but other people thought he was attractive. That's how all this happened."

I hadn't noticed the resemblance until the bartender started talking. Barry Junior was younger and thinner and had more hair, but the timbre in his voice was similar. When his father frowned at him, he excused himself to wash glasses out of earshot.

"I'm still listening," I said.

"Dahl was threatening to out a local attorney. Barry asked me to intercede. I don't even know the attorney's name—that's why I'm here."

"It may be time to open the envelope," I said.

Crane thought for a moment, then pulled the envelope out of his jacket. He must have had a pocket in the lining. I caught a glimpse of his shoulder holster as he shifted. I had been right—he was carrying.

"I'll let him do it." Crane gave the envelope a shove down the counter. It stopped near his son.

Barry Junior dried his hands and picked it up. He moved back to us.

"My friend wouldn't have killed Jimmy," he said. "He was just going to pay. He didn't even want to hire help."

"We want you to make sure those are your friend's pic­tures," I prompted.

The envelope had been sealed with Scotch tape. Barry Junior picked up a knife and slit the top. He fumbled with the contents.

"The pictures are here. The negatives aren't."

"Warned you," Crane said.

"Hell." I wanted to say something more profound. But I had warned Lane, too.

"I guess you didn't get there in time."

I thought Barry Junior was saying that to me, and I was about to bristle and tell him I was early, when I realized that Dennis was standing next to me. I hadn't heard him come in.

"No, I didn't."

"What time were you supposed to be there?" I asked.

"No special time," Dennis answered. "Jimmy said he was setting up appointments at four, four-thirty, and five. I didn't know they were with private investigators. I thought he was dealing directly with friends."

"Former friends," I said.

Dennis nodded. He took a sip of the beer that Barry Ju­nior placed in front of him.

"There was an envelope for you—but you didn't have an appointment?"

"No. I had told him I wouldn't pay. I was ready to leave the closet anyway. There was nothing he could do to me. Jimmy said in that case, he'd let me have the pictures. He planned to leave town once he got the money, so he didn't have any use for them."

"He had use for something," Crane grumbled. "Why else would he keep the negatives?"

"Keep the negatives? He wasn't going to keep the nega­tives."

I handed Dennis his envelope. He ripped it apart and spread the photographs on the bar. I caught a glimpse of two naked male bodies in awkward positions and looked away. Crane almost fell off the stool turning his back.

"You're right," Dennis said. "The negatives are missing."

"What time was your appointment?" I asked Crane.

"Four-thirty. I came early to check things out. Lowry must have done the same."

"Shit. The last shall be first," I said. "Clean and dry, too."

"What?"

"Have you got a phone directory?" I asked Barry Junior.

"The public phone is by the john," he said, pointing to the back of the barroom.

One glance told me the directory was too old to give me what I wanted. I left without saying good-bye.

 

I made it back to my office in record time.

Lowry's ad in the Yellow Pages listed a post office box. The reverse directory gave me an address in Sparks.

I wanted to leave again immediately, but I restrained myself long enough to call Matthews.

"Did someone take a shower?" I asked.

"What? A shower? Yeah. The bathroom was wet. We've even got what is maybe the perp's hair from a towel. Why?"

"I'll call you later." I would have asked him to meet me, but I wanted to be sure I was right first.

I made it to the Sparks address in record time, too.

Lowry was tossing a duffel bag into the trunk of an old Pontiac when I blocked the driveway with my Jeep.

"That's not a good place to park, little lady." He smiled, sort of. I didn't exactly feel welcome.

"I'll move it when the police arrive," I said, wishing I'd given Matthews more information.

"And when's that going to be? Seems to me you'd have to offer something to get them over here, and I just don't think you're holding any cards."

"Maybe. But I know you're holding the negatives—and that's extortion."

"Who'd I threaten? And that's only assuming you're right. You could get me for taking them from the crime scene, but we'll all get our wrists slapped for that one. So get out of my way, O'Neal." He shifted restlessly.

"Let me tell you what I think." What I really thought was that I should have brought Crane with me. "I think no­body hired you—Dahl had pictures of you. That was why you resigned from the force and left Las Vegas—somebody was threatening to out you. You made a five o'clock ap­pointment to meet Dahl, but you got there early, had a cup of coffee, offered to make up, do it once more for old times' sake. He gave you your envelope, so you knew where they were. You didn't have to toss the place. Thus, no worry about fingerprints. Once you had the pictures, you both got naked, and you killed him."

Lowry wasn't even trying to smile anymore.

I took a deep breath and continued. "You took a shower and cleaned up, then removed the negatives from the other envelopes and resealed them with tape. Maybe you were going to leave them, creating as many suspects as possible. For some reason you changed your mind and put them in your briefcase. Maybe you didn't want to risk a possible fingerprint on the tape. You were on your way out, planning to return at five in all innocence, when you ran into me."

The sun was fading into twilight, but even in shadow I could see his face mottling with dark streaks of anger.

"Wrong from the start, little lady." His voice was low and controlled. "I didn't know the fag. And I sure as hell didn't get into trouble over my sexual orientation. I was hired by a local politico who knew I'd been pushed off the force in Las Vegas for getting a little too excited during a couple of arrests. He'd heard I needed money, and he thought paying once for a hit would be cheaper than paying forever for the negatives."

"Not a good choice."

"Well, it might have been, but I decided a better choice for me was taking the hit money and then going for the re­tirement pay. I figured with four professionals involved—I thought I had Dennis Whosit, too—I'd get money more regular than Social Security." He was relaxing a little, and the smile was back.

"So how'd you get naked?"

Lowry offered a low chuckle.

"Hell, I pretended he was a girl till his pants were off. Told him how cute he was, all that. I could have just shot him—would have been neater—but I liked the idea of making it look like a crime of passion." He shifted his weight restlessly again. "It's been fun talking with you, O'Neal. You are a smart woman, and I surely wish I hadn't cut the time so close. It's going to be a lot harder collecting my Social Security on the run. Now you got a choice. You move the Jeep and let me leave, or I break your neck."

I know a little about self-defense, and I might have been able to take him if he rushed me. I didn't want to try. As he moved forward, I made a dive for the lawn, rolled over, and came up with my gun in my hand.

"Where the hell did that pea shooter come from?"

"My boot. It's small and not too accurate, but you'll have to get your hands on me to break my neck. That's close enough that I could put a hole in yours. You can take the chance, or you can climb into the trunk of your car and pull it shut. I figure the police will get here before you suf­focate."

He struggled with the idea, but he finally turned toward the car, chuckling. He put one boot, then the other, into the trunk.

"You're going to have a hell of a time proving anything," he said. "I'll deny everything but taking the envelopes. Hearsay evidence never hanged anybody. The rest is cir­cumstantial. Nothing ties me to the murder. No weapon, no prints, no nothing."

He had to take his hat off to get all the way inside. I waited until he had closed the lid. Then I sat on it to make sure the latch had caught before I yelled to him.

"You forgot something at the scene, Lowry! Use your head!"

He had left the front door open, so I made two calls from his phone, one to the television station and one to the police. I caught Lane just as he was coming off the set, told him not to worry, and arranged to meet him after he was through for the night.

 

Matthews was still unhappy with me, but he cheered up when I went with him to the station.

I told him most of the truth.

 

Lane was waiting for me in a quiet corner of the Comstock Room on the top floor of the Mother Lode ca­sino by the time I arrived, a little after midnight. He looked tired, but relieved. He even managed a gleaming smile when I slid into the booth next to him and passed him the envelope.

"I didn't look at the pictures. And I didn't sort out the negatives. I trust you'll do that and return the ones not yours to the people who need them."

"Won't you get into trouble over this?" he asked.

"I hope not. Lowry's briefcase was sitting on the front seat of the car, unlocked, and he hadn't bothered to seal the envelope he was keeping. So the police will find an envelope with pictures of Jimmy Dahl in a compromising position with the man who hired the hit. If Lowry volunteers that he took the negatives, he may have to volunteer a whole lot more. And trying to make a plea bargain by offering to tes­tify that I rifled his briefcase wouldn't get him very far. I suspect that Matthews isn't going to try too hard to make life difficult for anyone but Lowry."

Lane picked up my hand and kissed it. Then he closed his eyes and held my hand against his cheek.

"I can't begin to tell you how grateful I am," he said softly.

"Lane, hello. Grabbing a late night snack?" A deep voice rumbled over my shoulder. "And Miss O'Neal, isn't it?"

"Horton. Sure." Lane turned a soft shade of red and dropped my hand.

"Hi," I said.

"No problem," Horton chuckled. "What you do on your own time is your own business."

"Thanks," Lane said. Once Horton had moved away, he added, "Is this going to be a problem for you?"

"Not at all." I noticed a flash a few tables away, and I motioned for the club photographer to come over to the booth. "Make it good," I told her.

I didn't have to tell Lane what I wanted.

I checked with Matthews the next morning. Lowry was keeping his mouth shut, as I had figured. No mention of negatives or rifled briefcases. They had taken some hair samples for laboratory testing. The politician in the photos was coming in with his lawyer that afternoon. Matthews was almost cheerful.

The photo from the Mother Lode arrived in the mail a few days later. I framed it and hung it on my office wall.

So now anybody who walks in can see the handsomest man in Reno caught in the act of kissing me.

That's my idea of justice.

2007.05.19/MNQ

6,300 words